


Captives

by PepperPrints



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: M/M, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 19:39:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8222548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: “You’re a prisoner too,” Thawne tells him quietly. “A fugitive in this timeline, and a captive to this.” Thawne moves his free hand, gesturing to the space around him. “I’m the one in the cage but you’re just as trapped. You can’t abandon me; your conscience won’t let you. You can’t kill me either; you don’t have the nerve. Not yet.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 03x01, obviously. Many thanks go to Erika for editing this for me.
> 
> Warnings: questionable behavior regarding the dubious contexts of Thawne's imprisonment, use of restraints, a few references to throwing up if that makes you queasy, and aggressive (but consensual!) encounters, along with the general canon typical content you'd expect from this pairing.
> 
> Again! This fic also contains a trans headcanon, as forewarning, if that sort of thing isn't your cup of tea.

There’s pounding on the walls when he approaches: proof of Thawne’s stubborn persistence in seeking an escape. It’s not going to work -- Barry took enough precaution, but Barry can’t blame him: there’s nothing else for Thawne to do with his time but try.

 

“Brought your favorite,” Barry greets dryly, sarcastically -- a joke that Thawne won’t entirely understand. In this timeline, Thawne has never had Big Belly Burger until this second, right when Barry passes it through the narrow bars. 

 

Thawne catches the oddity nonetheless, squinting as he takes the bag and peers inside. There must be things Thawne wonders at, and there’s information Barry wishes he could purge, details of Thawne that he committed to memory: how he takes his coffee, what he orders on his burgers, his taste in alcohol… he knows these things about him before Thawne knows it about himself.

 

“I hope this tale of heroism goes down in history for you,” Thawne adds, unwrapping his burger with some visible caution. “Kidnapping and imprisonment… how noble.” 

 

It sounds like Thawne intends to go on, hoping to continue his speech of deriding Barry for his actions, but he takes a bite of his food and his whole expression changes. His chewing slows, and his eyes widen by some measure before he catches himself, trying to mute his very visible reaction. It’s too late, Barry caught it, and he grins faintly.

 

“Real beef,” Barry reminds. “Good, huh?”

 

Thawne scowls and says nothing, though he eats with a lot more eagerness than usual. “How long do you think you can keep me hidden?” Thawne challenges, with his mouth half full.

 

It doesn’t matter. Nothing else does. If everything else is perfect, then keeping a monster locked under his bed is a fair price.

 

\--

 

Thawne spends the next day throwing up. It starts in the morning when Barry checks in, and he’s still hunched over cell’s toilet when Barry returns at night. That should have been something Barry thought about: how shocking would something as heavy as real meat would be to Thawne’s body, if he’s spent a whole lifetime without it. 

 

“You did this on purpose,” Thawne says miserably, seeming a bit delirious. The accusation is especially childish, particularly petty, and Barry has to scoff.

 

“Yeah, all part of my evil scheme,” Barry answers with a roll of his eyes. “I’m going to slowly starve you to death.”

 

Thawne laughs, the sound echoing a little against the cheap porcelain he’s slumped against. There isn’t anything left in his system to come up, but he heaves dryly nonetheless. Barry winces, and his frown deepens.

 

This means Barry needs to take more care than cheap fast food every other night.

 

\--

 

Barry shouldn’t feel troubled by his mother’s prying -- he risked so much to have her back, so resenting any part of her presence even by the slightest margin seems like a betrayal, but he’s jumpy as she leans over his shoulder. “What’s with the sudden appetite?”

 

“Huh? Oh,” Barry intones awkwardly, shrugging his shoulders. When leaving for work in the morning, he thought packing two lunches on the regular might not be quite so obvious, but she’s sharper than he gives her credit for. “Still a growing boy, I guess!” 

 

Lying to her seems nauseating too, but she laughs and rubs his shoulder. “Not growing enough to make himself a lunch more complicated than a PB&J,” she teases, and Barry has to laugh, but she has a point.

 

He’s going to have to actually think about Thawne’s nutritional intake.

 

“And what’s all this?” she adds, gesturing to the bag at Barry’s feet, and he is as casual as he can muster.

 

“Some old clothes,” he explains, which isn’t entirely true. “But they don’t really fit so I figured… someone ought to wear ‘em, right?”

 

His mother looks impressed, if not a little suspicious. “Making lunches, cleaning your closet… who are you trying to impress?” she asks playfully.

 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Barry says, only half joking.

 

\--

 

Maybe the future doesn’t have peanut butter, since Thawne doesn’t seem to appreciate this either. His tongue rolls around, like a dog with it stuck to the roof of its mouth, and he has some difficulty speaking.

 

“Not that I don’t appreciate these little dinner dates,” Thawne says flatly. “But what are you getting out of this?”

 

“I’m not here for quality time; I have to feed you,” argues Barry simply. “And make sure you haven’t broken out.”

 

“Or died,” finishes Thawne coldly.

 

“Or that,” Barry agrees.

 

Thawne scoffs, his eyes rolling. “Touching,” he says bitterly, taking another bite of his sandwich. “You’re  _ such _ a generous captor. If you keep this up, I might develop something like Stockholm Syndrome.”

 

“Well. I was going to get you some new clothes instead of hand-me-downs,” Barry says snidely, holding a bag up in demonstration. “But not with that attitude.”

 

“I like my suit,” answers Thawne simply, if not a little possessively -- as if he thinks this is some elaborate ruse to get his one lasting possession away from him.

 

“Okay, but your suit is all you’ve been wearing since you got here,” reasons Barry bluntly, pushing the bag through the bars. “So...”

 

Thawne makes no motion to take the bag, or even sort through it, but Barry leaves him be. He’ll get to it eventually.

 

There isn’t anything else to entertain himself with.

 

\--

 

When he comes back, he somehow isn’t prepared for the image of Thawne wearing his old college hoodie. He seems oddly unthreatening like this: hair mussed and cheeks stubbled, with the sleeves just slightly too short on his arms. He’s seated by the edge of the cage, using the corner as a support for his back.

 

He looks haggard, nothing like what he is: a grim reminder of the cost for what he’s done; the monster he has to nurture and feed to guarantee his safety in this life.

 

“Been throwing up?” Barry guesses, though it’s more sincere than jabbing. Thawne’s eyes narrow, and his pasty complexion seems evidence enough. 

 

“ _ Everything _ from this time makes me throw up,” Thawne counters in a snarl. 

 

“Should have thought of that before you tried to kill my mother,” replies Barry curtly. 

 

“Flash,” hisses Thawne lowly, his hand curling around one of the bars. “I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I’m alone. I’m filthy. I’m in this -- box!” His palm slams against the bar in frustration. “Waiting here while time ticks away, coming for me -- coming for us -- and you won’t let me go! You’re condemning me, Flash! This is death row.” 

 

“Stop being dramatic,” Barry chides. 

 

Thawne huffs a laugh, more defeated than amused, and he presses his temple to the bars. He says nothing else, so Barry pushes last night’s leftovers through the bars, and decides to take his leave.

 

Before he does, Thawne speaks up again. “All these clothes smell like you.”

 

Barry stills, glancing back over his shoulder. There’s a softness in Thawne’s voice when he says it, something weaker, rather than cruel or sick. He isn’t saying this to be unsettling to Barry; he’s saying it like it upsets  _ him _ . Like it’s just another thing, like the food and the cell, that is serving to torture him.

 

There’s an oddity here: they know each other, but at the same time they don’t. Thawne knows Barry as he will be, Barry in the future -- a future. Likewise, Barry knows Thawne from a future he has now sufficiently erased. They’re acting off of assumptions of one another, and not one single mutual experience.

 

Thawne laughs softly, a little bit delirious -- or maybe it’s more helpless.

 

Thawne is someone he knew, someone he fought for, someone he loved -- but at the same time, he doesn’t exist anymore. The potential for him to exist is there, in this man, but it’s not as simple as that. 

 

And it hurts too much to think about.

 

“I’m bringing you water tomorrow,” Barry says instead, hurried and dismissive as he pulls himself away. “You can wash up with that yourself. Then I’m taking it away.”

 

\--

 

The next time Barry returns, Thawne looks a little more lively. Washing away the building layer of daily grit helps, and the fact that he’s been gradually able to stomach something more than once. He still looks comical in Barry’s clothes, and he can’t actually figure out where Thawne put his suit.

 

“What, did you hide it under your bed?” Barry asks disbelievingly, with a shrug of his shoulders. “I’m not going to take it from you, Thawne -- and if I was, that wouldn’t stop me.”

 

“Your benevolence is overwhelming,” says Thawne shortly. He peers at Barry, his head tilted. “How long do you think you can keep this up?”

 

“Long as I need to,” Barry answers easily, and Thawne scoffs.

 

“Even if time isn’t going to catch up to you -- which it is,” he clarifies coldly. “You’re going to spend the rest of your life with me in this box? Feeding me scraps and giving me baths?”

 

“Firstly, you bathed yourself,” Barry points out. “Secondly…” His jaw works, and he straightens his posture. “It’s worth it. Everything has a cost, right? This is the cost of my mother’s life and my happiness.” 

 

Thawne laughs, humorlessly and cold. “That isn’t what this is,” Thawne tells him. “This isn’t some cursed bargain you struck with some deity; this is all in your hands.”

 

“It’s in yours too!” Barry counters harshly. “You want to lecture me, but you played with time first! You came back here! You can’t turn around and get mad at me for following you. You’re a hypocrite!”

 

“There’s plenty of that to go around, Flash,” hisses Thawne. “Hero.”

 

Barry stiffens as Thawne continues. “But that’s not true anymore, is it?” he asks coldly “You’re not a hero. You’re not the Flash. You’re an ordinary, selfish boy -- who seems perfectly normal except for the monster he’s locked in his basement.” 

 

Snorting, Barry squints at him. “So you do think you’re a monster?” he asks loftily. “Good to know.” 

 

“Do you think that I’m going to be anything else?” Thawne says lowly, dangerously. “That there’s going to be one shred of decency left in me if you keep me rotting in this box forever? Do you think I’m going to show you one inch of mercy if this continues on for the rest of our lives?”

 

Thawne looms closer, hovering as close as he can with the glass barrier between them.

 

“Who do you think is going to be responsible for _ that _ ?”

 

\--

 

“I want to go outside,” Thawne insists.

 

“Out of the question,” Barry says firmly. Routinely, he has to clean Thawne’s living space, so he’s cuffed to the bars while Barry works. It’s a parody of decency: as if it isn’t the least he can do to keep the cell he’s locked Thawne into clean.

 

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen the outside?” Thawne presses urgently. “How long it’s been since I’ve seen a face that isn’t yours?”

 

“Well, you’re the one obsessed with me,” Barry counters coolly. “So that should be ideal for you.”

 

Thawne scoffs, his head tilting back to hit the bars. “Flash,” he groans. 

 

“Knock it off,” Barry chastises. “I’m not an idiot; you’re not getting out of here.”

 

\--

 

Over the next week, his visits are scarce. He drops off Thawne’s food, then leaves. Often, he doesn’t even wait for Thawne to wake up -- or leaves several meals at once rather than separately. Work is hectic, family life is catching up to him, and he doesn’t feel up to lingering around for Thawne’s jabs. It’s too exhausting, and he’s had enough of it. It’s probably a relief for Thawne too, to not be antagonized and denied.

 

Or so Barry would assume. The hand that grasps for him through the bars says differently.

 

“Where are you going?” Thawne speaks it like an accusation. 

 

“Home,” Barry says belatedly, as if it isn’t obvious. “I’m tired. I’m worn out. I need to sleep.”

 

Thawne’s fingers tighten on Barry’s sleeve, and his jaw visibly works. He says nothing, so Barry pushes. “What?” he asks skeptically. “What do you want?”

 

Thawne can’t possibly want him to stay?

 

Seconds seem to drag, and Thawne is silent, so Barry puts his foot down. “I’m going,” Barry says firmly, pulling his arm free, and he doesn’t bother looking back.

 

However, the notion lingers: if Thawne actually asked, would he have been able to say no?

 

\--

 

“Oh, what’s the occasion?” asks Thawne coyly, as Barry returns with a bag over his shoulder and cuffs in his hands. Barry ignores him, and speaks firmly.

 

“Sit down with your back to the bars, and reach your hands through,” Barry instructs plainly. He expects more resistance than what he gets: Thawne relents easier than he anticipates, settling down and letting Barry lock his hands through the bars.

 

Barry checks the lock, twice and three times over, before he enters into the cell with Thawne. The other man has his brows raised, and his lips smirk. “This is bold,” he says slyly, and Barry doesn’t bite.

 

“It’d be bold if you were dangerous,” Barry tells him bluntly. “You’re not.” Barry settles himself in front of Thawne, and he opens his bag. “Besides, I’d recommend not fighting me when I do this. Especially since you don’t heal anymore”

 

Because what he has planned involves a straight razor, and Thawne is out of luck if he gets cut.

 

There’s an intimacy to this that Barry wants to deny. As much as Thawne deserves this, the idea of denying him basic hygiene seems a touch too cruel to muster. Doing this himself feels equally uneasy, like it’s something invasive, but he has to remind himself of this: this is what his price is for this timeline, for this peace he’s won for himself.

 

The water won’t be warm, but it has to do. Thawne is surprisingly still as Barry wets his face. Barry does deliberately avoid meeting his eyes, rubbing soap into a lather and smearing it across his jaw.

 

“You don’t have to do this,” Thawne tells him, his brow furrowing, and he wonders if it’s wounded pride that compels him to object.

 

“I’m not letting you have a blade,” Barry counters bluntly. “Now don’t move.”

 

Steadily and surely, Barry begins his process. Thawne’s facial hair is sparse but thick, and his skin is mostly clear after a second stroke. Thawne is surprisingly pliant through it all, letting Barry move his head this way and that when he needs the angle right. He isn’t tense, per se; he isn’t acting like he expects Barry to slit his throat, but his neck is moving in visible swallows, and his lips are parting for his breaths.

 

Silence is something he asked for, but now he feels oddly claustrophobic because of it. This close proximity to Thawne, this context and measure of trust, feels more and more explicit with every slide of the razor against his skin.

 

He could end this, right here -- and Thawne seems like he might be grateful for it. This existence must be torturous, trapped here, and he has no one to blame but himself… Thawne has taken so much from Barry, and from countless others. Barry has erased those crimes by changing the course of time, but does that make him less culpable? Does that erase his intent? Is he imprisoning someone who is now, by his own actions, essentially innocent?

 

“Are you thinking about killing me?”

 

Barry finally meets Thawne’s eyes. His expression seems glassy somehow, not all there, and Barry only now takes notice of his own shallow breathing.

 

Thawne’s head tilts, his gaze piercing. They aren’t the same blue he’s used to -- eyes he stole, eyes that never rightfully belonged to him -- but they’re just as piercing.

 

“Or,” Thawne continues, purposefully trailing off, “are you…?”

 

Barry stills. The implication lingers, festers, and Barry suddenly feels hot. He remembers Thawne’s scorn in the pipeline, the way his mouth moved around the word ‘obsessed’ when he described his fixation on the Flash, and just moments ago, his desperate lamenting about sleeping surrounded by Barry’s scent.

 

They’re so close. Barry notices the slow shifting of Thawne’s legs, too well timed to just be casual, and his head tips. He can feel the heat of Thawne’s breath on his cheek, and his chest feels tight.

 

“Flash,” Thawne says, clearly seeking, and Barry winces despite himself.

 

“Barry,” he corrects quietly, folding the razor and setting it aside. “It’s  _ your _ Barry--” he can’t help but think of it: the firm possessiveness Thawne once had in his mind, differentiating the Barry he knew and claimed to love, from the imposter who he instinctively resented “--remember?”

 

It’s pointless, asking for Thawne to remember something that technically hasn’t happened yet. It seems to have some sway regardless; even if the words don’t conjure memory, the sentiment seems to soothe. Thawne reclines again, his expression hard to read, as if he’s struggling to puzzle this out as much as Barry is.

 

“Barry,” Thawne obediently repeats, for the first time in his whole imprisonment, and the sound goes straight to Barry’s gut.

 

He surges forward all at once, and he presses his mouth to Thawne’s with sudden demand. It’s been there: burning steadily under his skin, and now it’s boiled over to a point that he can’t contain. The sentiment is apparently reciprocated, because Thawne moans and pushes his tongue into Barry’s mouth. Letting his mouth fall open, Barry buries his hand into Thawne’s unkempt hair, and he tightens his hold. He wants this. He’s been wanting this -- across varying definitions of time, he’s sought this out, and an erasure of what he’s known hasn’t changed that by the slightest measure.

 

If he paused to think, he might have stopped himself. It might be deliberate that he doesn’t give himself the opportunity, that he tries to find the excuse to make this happen. “Can I…” Barry blurts suddenly, and he’s already moving.  It’s so easy, so quick to work his hand under the waistband of Thawne’s pants.

 

His whole body jerks in response, and Barry stills immediately, suddenly aware that he may have drastically overstepped. He lingers tensely, unsure if Thawne’s shifting in effort to determine whether it’s trying to get closer or move away. When he tries to withdraw, Thawne presses his thighs together, keeping Barry’s hand firmly where it is.

 

“Oh,” Barry intones softly, trying a gentler pace in realization, and Thawne seems to melt against him in response, thighs parting in obvious invitation. “You’re…” Barry trails away, wetting his lips with his tongue, and his chest twists. Carefully, Barry tries again: refusing to be distracted by the sudden shift of expectation. Thawne is wet, warm, and Barry finds it very hard to think clearly.

 

“Yeah?” Barry says cautiously, his heartbeat thudding in his ears as his fingers work in slow strokes across slick skin. He watches Thawne’s eyes close, his teeth catching on his lip, and Barry feels his breath getting shallow. Thawne is responsive, twitching and twisting as much as his restrained hands will allow him, and Barry feels dizzy, almost punch drunk and near obsessive.

 

There’s a nagging feeling to this: something that’s a shade off. A frustration bleeds in because of that: how he’s touching Thawne, but not the Thawne he knew, not the same man he wanted, and no matter how close he presses, that reality digs in. He tries to ignore it, pushing it aside in favor of pushing against him, as if tight proximity will change the time lost between them.

 

“You wanted me?” Thawne asks abruptly, his voice steady but low, as if he’s concerned speaking louder will betray its shakiness. The question seems absurd to start, but then it clicks: Thawne wouldn’t know, he wouldn’t even imagine… he was the one obsessed with the Flash; he wouldn’t believe it could be the other way around.

 

Barry laughs breathlessly, shaking his head in disbelief, and he finds himself grinning. “Yeah,” he affirms quietly. “I wanted…” Barry cuts himself short, thinking better of it. That’s a dangerous path to go down, and Barry quickly smothers it. “Here,” he says instead,  scrambling -- almost artless in his urgency -- to get between Thawne’s parted legs instead. “Let me…?”

 

He’s somewhat graceless about it, hooking his fingers around the waistband of borrowed pants and tugging. “Will you let me?” Barry repeats, managing to get each word out this time, fumbling with the button of his jeans. 

 

The response isn’t what he expects: Thawne laughs, low and unsteady, and his head tilts back. “Flash,” he drawls, and the sound of it creeps like the sweat collecting down Barry’s spine. He legs lift, curling around Barry’s hips to pull him closer, heels digging into the small of Barry’s back.

 

Barry lets himself be drawn in, pushes forward, and he loses clarity for longer than he wants to admit. Thawne takes a breath in through his teeth, and a shaking sigh follows, his arms straining against the cuffs keeping him in place. He’s warm, is the one thought that’s pushing stubbornly and stupidly on Barry’s mind. He’s feeling almost delirious and all he can focus on is that one, overwhelming detail.

 

“Thawne,” he says quietly, with a sudden urgency. The name feels thick in his mouth, a harsh roll of his tongue against the back of his teeth. “Thawne…”

 

Barry moves, shaking but sure, and his hands grip down on Thawne’s hips. He wants to pull him closer, wants to drag him further into his lap, but the familiar clatter of the cuffs against the bars reminds him of his limitations. He can’t release him, he knows that, and no amount of impulsive, selfish desire should sway him… even so, Barry lingers on the idea; how it’d feel to let Thawne grab him, pull him close, feel his fingers twist into his hair.

 

As that frustration edges in, lingering and festering, Barry moves harder as if to make up for what’s lacking with pure force. Thawne can’t touch him, but he can touch Thawne: he can dig his thumbs into his hips, roam his palm over his chest, pull at the roots of his hair -- blond, red and blond; not black… -- Barry buries that too, his hips snapping up against Thawne, and in response he’s drawn closer, thighs tightening around Barry’s sides.

 

“Yes,” Thawne sighs like he’s relieved, his lips curling up as he shows Barry his teeth. “ _ There _ you are…”

 

The comment doesn’t quite line up properly; Barry doesn’t understand its origins -- but the implication gets through: he’s done something  that makes Thawne see him as the person he used to know. Is it his aggression that changes that? The thought feels sharp, but maybe it’s not quite like that. Maybe it’s the act of asserting himself, and the confidence a motion like that involves.

 

“But where are  _ you _ ?!” Barry blurts impulsively, breathless and suddenly needy -- unintentionally abandoning that demeanor that Thawne finds so alluring. His hand cups Thawne’s face, feeling the smooth skin under his cheek, and he holds him in place: not letting him look away. Weakly, more seeking and earnest, Barry repeats himself: “Where are you…?”

 

Where is the person he really wants, underneath all of this hate and despair?

 

Rolling his thumb across Thawne’s cheek, Barry tries to see beneath him. He isn’t entirely sure what he’s looking for; he doesn’t know how to name it. Something in Thawne’s expression changes with his next exhale, and his lips kiss the pad of Barry’s thumb.

 

“Ssh,” he urges softly. “Relax -- it’s okay…”

 

That’s it -- that’s him.

 

Barry laughs breathlessly, despite himself, and Thawne hushes him. Slumping forward, Barry presses their foreheads together and he lets his hips move. He’s shivering, sweaty, and sighing when Thawne’s teeth graze his lips. “Yeah,” Barry says, vaguely and dizzily. He’s aware he’s not making sense, but it’s all he can do: “yeah, that’s what I want…”

 

\--

 

“Who wins here, Flash?”

 

Thawne is uncuffed now, but he’s lingering where he is. He’s staring through Barry as he packs his things, piercing, and his lips thin. 

 

“You’re a prisoner too,” Thawne tells him quietly. “A fugitive in this timeline, and a captive to this.” Thawne moves his freed hand, gesturing to the space around him. “I’m the one in the cage but you’re just as trapped. You can’t abandon me; your conscience won’t let you. You can’t kill me either; you don’t have the nerve. Not yet.”

 

The phrasing gives Barry pause, and his eyes narrow as he throws the bag over his shoulder. “Yet?” he repeats, watching Thawne wet his mouth with his tongue.

 

“That doesn’t matter,” Thawne abruptly switches tone. “You see the point I’m trying to make.”

 

“I didn’t want this,” he reminds reluctantly, and Thawne rolls his eyes.

 

“Liar,” Thawne says bitterly. “You wanted all of this. You wanted it so badly you changed time to orchestrate it -- and now you want to play naive and innocent. What did you think was going to happen? What else were you going to do with me? Did you really not think twice?”

 

Barry winces, his brows tightening, and Thawne shakes his head. “You want to keep me here, because you’re punishing yourself,” Thawne tells him icily. “You’ve enlisted me as your personal penance, because somewhere, in that dense skull of yours, you know what you’ve done is a mistake”

 

Barry does, admittedly, but he doesn’t want to admit it -- not to himself, and certainly not to Thawne. 

 

“The Flash I know--” he starts, and Barry’s frustration cuts through immediately.

 

“Well, I’m not him!” he interrupts sharply. “And you’re not the Thawne I know either! So we can both be disappointed!”

 

Guilt creeps in, and Barry exhales hotly, cupping his hands against his neck. He hates that: he hates knowing that the two of them can be so close, but still be unsatisfied. He hates that he still wants to touch him, that he wants to be pressed tight, that he wants to try to peel back layers as if there’s another man buried underneath him -- another face beneath his skin.

 

The same must stand for Thawne. He wanted the Flash: his hero, his idol, his aspiration. Instead here’s Barry, clumsy and disappointing and lost. He isn’t living up to the grand future Thawne’s seen for him: he’s amateur and in need of guidance, too clumsy and too affection-starved.

 

“I still want  _ you _ ,” he admits quietly, even knowing he’ll regret it. “That’s the worst thing.”

 

Thawne laughs, the sound utterly devoid of any mirth. “Well, you have me,” he points out bitterly, spreading his arms in demonstration. “How is that turning out for you?”

 

Barry snorts, and he gives Thawne a skeptical look. “How is it for  _ you _ ?” he counters simply. 

 

Lips thinning, Thawne actually seems to consider his answer. “Unsatisfying,” he explains carefully, after a moment of thought. “Like eating something that’s not quite ripe yet.” Thawne pauses making an exaggerated look of annoyance. “Or maybe it’s more appropriate to say it’s something that’s gone sour.”

 

Barry winces, though the longer he thinks of it, the more appropriate it seems. “You could be good, you know,” Barry points out firmly. “It’s in you. I’ve seen it.”

 

Brows raising, Thawne huffs a breath. “And I’ve seen the worst of you,” he counters. “So we truly are equal, aren’t we?” 

 

Thawne scoffs, leaning back against the walls of the cell. “But maybe you have a point… after all, you’re going to come crawling back to me soon enough -- asking for my help to save you.”

 

“Doubtful,” Barry chides, adjusting the straps on the bag as he turns to go. “This is where we belong now -- so you have to get used to it.”

 

“Mh,” intones Thawne, his head tilting to the side as he watches Barry go. “For the time being.”


End file.
